


The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

by Meabd



Series: Invictus [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curse Breaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Time Loop, hint of bdsm if you squint, no actual penetration sorry kiddos, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meabd/pseuds/Meabd
Summary: “I’ve been repeating the same goddamned day for three years Jaskier. Three years,” Geralt’s voice was low, the eyes that rose to meet Jaskier were shaded, hollow.“Every fucking time you die. I’ve had to watch you die a thousand times. I know this is hard to believe but I need you to trust me—”“Yeah alright I’m with you, what have we tried so far?”ORWhen you're the one that ISN'T aware of the time loop.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Invictus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794715
Comments: 84
Kudos: 1317
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

Jaskier stirred awake, the slight chill of the dewy morning settling into his bones. He huffed a little, savoring the warmth of his bedroll, not exactly keen to leave it. But, leave one _must_ , there’s monsters to slay, ballads to write, etcetera, etcetera.

The bard sat up, leaning back on his elbows as he surveyed a rather peculiar scene. Geralt, always the early riser, had not yet begun to pack up camp. He hadn’t really… _begun_ at all. His hair was sleep mussed, his armor and swords in a heap beside the old fallen elm where he’d deposited them the night before. His face was hidden in his hands, shoulders hunched… he looked absolutely _shattered_. 

“Ah… Geralt? Are you… uh, are you alright there?” The white wolf did not stir. Jaskier was more than a bit concerned.

“Geralt?” Still nothing. Jaskier shimmied out of his bedroll.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He reached one hand out towards Geralt’s shoulder, unsure as to what he was going for. A pat on the back? A hug? He didn’t have to think for long, as one large, calloused hand shot out to grasp his wrist. The hold was tight, but not painful.

“I’ve been repeating the same goddamned day for three years Jaskier. _Three years_ ,” Geralt’s voice was low, the eyes that rose to meet Jaskier were shaded, hollow. 

“Every fucking time you die. I’ve had to watch you die a thousand times. I _know_ this is hard to believe but I need you to trust me—”

“Yeah alright I’m with you, what have we tried so far?” Geralt faltered. As if he wasn’t quite sure how to continue now that his big ‘I need to convince Jaskier’ speech had worked so quickly. 

“ _We_ have tried, right Geralt? This isn’t… the first time you’ve…” Geralt released the bard’s wrist, a look that was suspiciously close to shame falling across his features. Jaskier wanted to be surprised—three years is quite a long time to go without help, after all—but this level of destructive self-imposed individualism was pretty par for the course. 

“I see,” Jaskier hummed, backing away to turn towards his pack. “Well nothing to do about it I suppose. You know, brilliant creature that I am, I’m very prepared for this,” he rummaged, grabbing a ream of parchment and a quill. Jaskier took a moment, back turned, to steel his nerves and steady his hands. It _hurt_ that Geralt hadn’t gotten around to _asking for his help_. 

“... have you written a song about greater time magics?” The voice, monotone though it was, held the barest hint of hope.

“No, no, nothing like that I—well _honestly_ Geralt, you’d know the answer to that if you ever _listened_ to me,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. His throat ached for some reason. 

“I’ve _been_ listening,” Geralt’s voice was pitched low, he rose from his place next to the elm and placed one gentle hand over Jaskier’s own. The parchment slipped from his fingers. 

“You don’t mean that,” Jaskier couldn’t decide if he was referring to the protestation or the feather light hand warming his. Perhaps both. 

Geralt did not answer, instead threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. He pulled the bard into his arms and placed an open mouthed kiss on his lips. He was burning hot and tasted of the wine they’d had for dinner the night before. 

This was everything Jaskier had ever dreamed of. He wanted to sink into that warm, trembling embrace and _demand_ more. He wanted to rake his own fingers through Geralt’s hair, feel the sinewed muscles of his arms tighten over him. Jaskier _wanted_ a lot of things, but frozen as he was he could only think of one thing.

“How many times have you done this?” He murmured, muffled by Geralt’s kiss. Had it not been a Witcher he’d whispered those words to, they may not have been heard at all. But Witcher, Geralt was, and draw back he did. 

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. Jaskier was careful to school his face into a neutral expression. 

“Enough times that you’ve lost count,” he suggested. Geralt grimaced, which was all the confirmation he needed. 

Jaskier was torn. The man he’d been pining after for _over a decade_ had him wrapped in a passionate embrace—well, passionate before Jaskier went and ruined it. But at the same time this man that he _so_ adored had spent _hundreds_ of days trying to save Jaskier without ever thinking to mention it to him. 

Jaskier lifted a hand to Geralt’s face, passing his thumb over kiss-reddened lips. He leaned into the touch and Jaskier found himself somewhat jealous of all the _other_ Jaskiers that got to experience this without the weight of betrayal looming over them. 

“Well,” he sighed, stepping out of Geralt’s arms and immediately regretting it, “I suppose we ought to get to it, walk me through everything you’ve tried so far and I’ll make a list.”

He picked up the parchment and ambled over to the fallen tree across from Roach. 

“ _No_!” Geralt’s forceful shout startled Jaskier, who turned to stare at his companion. 

“There’s… there’s, ah,” Geralt side stepped Jaskier and pulled a dagger from his pack, throwing it towards the tree. Jaskier approached slowly, peering over the side. A very large, very dead cobra stared up at him. Jaskier gulped, understanding immediately and with startling clarity _how_ Geralt knew that snake was there. 

“Bet that was a messy one, eh?” He quipped, settling as far away from the corpse as he could. 

“You told me you loved me,” Geralt busied himself with wiping blood off of his dagger. 

“Ah, professing my undying love with my _dying_ breath, how poetic,” Jaskier couldn’t help but remember the handiwork of the djinn.

“You usually do… if you have the breath,” Geralt’s tone was odd. Pained, but with a sharp edge of mirthless humor. Jaskier shrugged, he was put off-kilter by the conversation and not very accustomed to being off-kilter. 

“I’m not surprised,” he admitted quietly, “I’m sure you know all about my years of pining with how many times you’ve had the conversation,” Jaskier tried to not sound bitter. 

“Jaskier, I don’t—”

“Snake! We’ll start the list with the snake, how’s that sound? Now, call out as many other causes that you can think of,” Geralt’s lips pursed into a hard, unhappy line. Nevertheless he sat next to the bard, a little bit closer than Jaskier was used to, and began to speak. 

* * *

“I _told_ you, if we go to the witch in the last village we passed she gives you a potion that you’re allergic to and you _choke on your own blood_ ,” Jaskier was on his tenth sheet of parchment and the sun burned low in the sky. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a shirt sleeve. 

“Okay, no witch, fine. Are you _sure_ I can’t go have a dip in the river? It’s so _hot_ ,” the whine in his voice seemed to grate on Geralt’s last nerve.

“ _No_ Jaskier, the drowners—”

“Which you know about and can dispatch before I even disrobe!”

“But when I _do_ you get caught in an undertow and get sucked under.”

“Then perhaps you’d be willing to come in and safeguard my personnage,” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows. 

“And when I do _that_ we’re both distracted with… other things and you slip on a rock and crack your head open.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but mull over what ‘other things’ might have entailed. He was _very_ jealous of his other selves. 

“Geralt for Melitele’s sake this is _ridiculous_ . We’re getting nowhere. What did you _do_ to start this time-thingy?” Jaskier turned to face his companion, his knee just barely grazing one powerful thigh. 

“If I _knew that_ don’t you think I’d have told you?” Geralt’s golden eyes flicked over for a moment before settling back on the hands he had clasped in his lap. Jaskier hummed, not altogether convinced. 

“There’s something you aren’t telling me,” the accusation was sedate, its quiet delivery made in the same tone one might use to calm a frightened animal. “What happened that first day? The one that kicked this all off. Walk me through it, every minute.” 

The merrily chirping birds and distant bubbling brook were mocking in the heavy silence between them. 

“We woke up,” Geralt finally spoke. Jaskier nodded with enthusiasm, motioning for him to continue with the nib of his quill. 

“You—I, _we_ fought,” _that_ was new. 

“About?”

“The competition in Novigrad,” he ground out. _Guess I finally got around to telling him about that_ , Jaskier chewed on his quill. It wouldn’t have been the first time they split up, and certainly not the first time for reasons pertaining to his art. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Was it because I was leaving?” Geralt shook his head. Gods above it was like pulling teeth with this one. 

“Geralt you’re going to have to tell me, unless you _want_ to start all over with this nonsense,” he threw his hands up in a general gesture of malaise. He was greeted with a heavy sigh. 

“You mentioned paying a visit to the Passiflora,” Jaskier quirked a brow, the White Wolf was no stranger to and had no qualms with brothels. And despite his newfound _affection_ for Jaskier, the bard was relatively certain that jealousy was not the issue either. 

“Because you were ‘light of coin and willing to take a trip down memory lane’.” Oh. _Oh_ . What in the _hell_ had he been thinking? 

During the years he spent studying in Oxenfurt times had been hard for Jaskier. He _had_ come from nobility, but seeing that he kept finding new and innovative ways to disappoint his parents they weren’t exactly an option in terms of monetary relief. 

So he, like many others at the university, took to offering ‘private shows’. With Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes, fair skin and sparkling personality he was well received to say the least. He was comfortably clothed and fed, he wanted for nothing—usually through the generosity of a lover-cum-benefactor. It was a past time that he carried over; when not accompanied by his white wolf he spent most of his time with one old patron or another. He didn’t like to think of it as transactional, he truly _enjoyed_ his time at court. Regardless, winters devoid of Geralt’s presence were usually passed in the arms of a generous noble.

“You know, I was probably joking,” Jaskier murmured. Geralt’s sharp look silenced him.

“You never _told me_ what you had to do, Jaskier. I could have _protected_ you.” Wide blue eyes met gold ones. 

“I don’t _need_ protecting—”

“No, you just play the _whore_ every season I leave you alone,” the snarl cut off Jaskier’s protestation. “If you had _said something_ I would have brought you with me. You could winter at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir wouldn’t mind. You didn’t have to _sell_ yourself for a roof over your head,” Geralt’s voice was strained, the admission clearly pained him to put words to. 

Jaskier let the silence wrap around them.

“I would have taken care of you,” he finished lamely. A small sound escaped Jaskier’s throat and Geralt moved to rise—probably to run away from the conversation, heated as it had gotten. 

Jaskier made a grab for Geralt’s arm, but overshot his reach and landed on his knees in front of the fallen tree. The Witcher whipped around, eyes wide.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?” Strong hands lifted Jaskier back onto the tree, jerky in their haste as he checked for any injury. He’d settled in front of Jaskier, kneeling between his open thighs. It would have been erotic if his expression wasn’t so panicked. 

“I’m fine, Geralt I’m _fine_ ,” Jaskier caught Geralt’s wrists, holding them close. Their eyes met and the _fear_ and _hurt_ he saw in Geralt’s broke his heart. 

“This was the fight, wasn’t it?” A silent nod. 

“And then what?” The question was barely audible. 

“You left. There were bandits. I was too late,” there was a lot to read between those lines. 

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” the Witcher’s voice cracked, and without warning he’d buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Short, harsh sobs wracked his body and his hands wandered the bard’s lithe frame, almost as if he were trying to convince himself he was still there. 

Jaskier froze, his hands stilled on Geralt’s waist. This wasn’t a situation he was exactly prepared for, truth be told. He tightened his hold on the Witcher and hummed a few bars against the crown of his head, relying on the vibrations of his voice to soothe him. 

“I’ve got you my love. You won’t have to say goodbye,” he pressed a kiss against white hair, reveling in the spicy smell of the cedar oil Jaskier had used for Geralt’s last bath. As abruptly as it started Geralt reigned himself in, the crying slowed to a whimper. Neither moved to pull away.

“You don’t know that. I’ve said goodbye so many times,” Geralt finally spoke, hot breath graced Jaskier’s clavicle and gods be damned now was _not_ the time for an erection. Jaskier willed his dick to behave before taking Geralt’s face in his hands. He wiped away a stray tear and leaned in close so that their foreheads were just barely touching. 

“I know you have dearheart. I know. I can’t promise that we’ll fix it today, but _we will fix it_. However long it takes. You tell me from now on and we’ll do it together. I won’t let you do this alone.” A small smile curled at the edges of Jaskier’s lips. Geralt nodded and opened his mouth (to agree? Hopefully.) but Jaskier pressed himself against him and kissed away whatever words he’d been about to say. 

And _oh_ that was good. Teeth nipped at Jaskier’s lower lip and he responded in kind. The faint taste of blood blossomed on his tongue and something feral woke in the bard. One hand grabbed a fistful of Geralt’s shirt, yanking him closer. He was rewarded with a low growl that shot straight to his groin. The Witcher cradled the back of Jaskier’s head, keeping him firmly in place. He leaned into the embrace and brushed a hip against Jaskier’s straining cock. 

Jaskier gasped, his breath shuddering as sharp teeth found purchase on his neck. In the back of his mind he knew that it would bruise if they made it to the next morning. “Please, _gods_ Geralt please—” he didn’t even know _what_ he was asking for but he knew he was desperate for more.

Geralt grasped Jaskier’s thighs and lifted the lithe bard. Legs wrapped around his waist and needy hands scrambled for purchase, before he could squeak out a protest Jaskier felt the sharp bite of bark against his back. 

“I’ve got you little songbird,” Geralt hummed, licking a long line up Jaskier’s neck. The hands that palmed his ass were deliciously warm and Jaskier nodded. He squirmed, trying to gain traction, pressure, _anything_ to relieve the burning need he felt in the pit of his stomach. 

“You’re _my_ bard,” another nod, Jaskier clutched Geralt’s arms to steady himself. He let out a soft ‘ _ah_ ’ when he felt the light pressure of Geralt’s hand on his throat—there wasn’t much force behind it but the message was clear, and he quite liked it.

“Yours, I’m yours,” his breathy assent was met with a harsh kiss. Jaskier sucked lightly on Geralt’s tongue and the groan that came from him was enough to have Jaskier’s hips thrusting involuntarily against an impressively large girth. 

Geralt pulled away and the pained noise that escaped Jaskier elicited a smirk that bordered on cruel. One hand deftly untied the laces of Jaskier’s silk brocade trousers, pushing them out of the way he made quick work of retrieving the aching cock and _oh sweet Melitele there right there_. 

The large hand that wrapped around Jaskier’s length began to move, the sweet, slow pressure was almost too much to bear. Geralt brushed the tips of his calloused fingers against the sensitive head, using the precum to wet his grip.

“Geralt I’m not going to last if you—” the hand twisted as the Witcher’s tongue slicked over his pulse point. The sharp bite that followed was enough to have Jaskier in tears.

“You’ll finish when I _let_ you,” the hand was gone and Geralt was stepping back, Jaskier could have wept at the absence but he centered all his focus on staying upright. He shut his blue eyes tight as he shakily leaned against the tree behind him. 

Before a word of protest had left the bard he was being lifted again, this time with his legs draped over strong shoulders, his spine scraped painfully against the rough bark. Jaskier’s eyes flew open as he stared down at Geralt, who was peppering kisses and bites over the milky skin of an exposed hip bone. Jaskier could only imagine how he looked as he peered down at Geralt—sky blue eyes open wide with blown out pupils, sex flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Probably a rather pretty picture, that.

Jaskier licked his lips as he watched Geralt. The Witcher’s cheek was pressed into the junction of Jaskier’s thigh, his warm exhale of breath brushed the base of Jaskier’s cock, tearing a moan from his already ragged throat. One large hand stilled the jerk of Jaskier’s hips, fingers dug into his side hard enough to sting. 

“What do you want, songbird?” Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair. 

“You, I want _you_ , please Geralt—” lips closed around his cock and his balls ached as Geralt swallowed him down to the base. Jaskier was _impressed_ , while he wasn’t as endowed as Geralt clearly was, he was no slouch either. 

“You are _very_ good at that,” Jaskier strained against the hold on his hips, desperation colored his voice. The answering swirl of tongue had the bard pitching forward to rest his weight on Geralt’s shoulder. The hunch of his spine scraped against the tree and the warm trickle of blood at the small of his back was grounding.

Geralt pulled off his cock with an obscene pop. Judging from his worried expression he’d obviously caught scent of the blood. 

“It’s _fine_ Geralt, I’m fine and I swear to all the gods if you stop now I will throw myself off a fucking cliff, _please_ ,” the Witcher snarled. Okay so maybe threatening suicide wasn’t the best idea considering the circumstances. 

“I will tie you to this tree, bard,” the warning was punctuated by a rough bite on his inner thigh, hard enough to draw blood, and any pretence of composure he had was crippled by the heady rush of pain and breathless want that followed.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he ground out between clenched teeth as Geralt palmed his balls. His cock dripped with arousal and his muscles fluttered.

“Hmm, maybe later,” Geralt licked up Jaskier’s cock, circling his tongue lasciviously around the engorged head with a cheeky wink. A _wink_. Truly a day of firsts. 

He took Jaskier back in his mouth and sucked down _hard_ , apparently throwing all pretence of teasing right out the window. Jaskier moaned helplessly and finally, _finally_ Geralt’s grip loosened just enough for Jaskier to fuck into his mouth. Rough hands _squeezed_ his ass and the accompanying heat around his dick was scorching and wet and _so_ good and Jaskier tried to warn him but the words died on his lips as a scream overtook him and he spilled into the back of Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier shuddered, the feel of Geralt’s throat constricting around him as he swallowed was almost too much. With a final languorous swipe of a tongue over Jaskier’s softening cock Geralt pulled away looking exactly like the cat that got the canary. He shrugged the slim legs off his shoulders, careful not to jostle the trembling bard. For the first time in _ages_ Jaskier was speechless, content to bask in the floaty feeling of post-orgasmic bliss. He sank into Geralt’s arms as the taller man wrapped him up in a steadying embrace.

“How did you—”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Geralt rumbled as explanation, not bothering to pull away. “How is your back?” 

Jaskier straightened a bit, the blood soaked fabric of his shirt pulled away from the scrape. It stung, not enough to distract him from the implication of that explanation, but enough to show on his face. 

“Not too bad,” he only winced a _little_ when Geralt’s calloused fingertips grazed the torn cotton. “We’ve lost most of the day,” Jaskier observed, the setting sun scattered gold hued light on the foliage around them. Geralt made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “Would you like to _continue_ wasting the day?” Jaskier glanced pointedly down at his companion’s tented trousers.

“Usually it takes more convincing than that for you to let me take you in the middle of the forest,” Geralt tugged Jaskier away from the tree, leading him to one of the bed rolls they’d neglected to pack up. “It’s not an ‘affront to your dignity’?” Jaskier snorted.

“Bold of you to assume I _have_ dignity,” the quip drew a sharp, shocked laugh from Geralt, who busied himself with divesting Jaskier of his torn shirt. 

“You can be very prissy when you want to be, songbird,” Geralt leaned over to his pack and started to sift through it, not catching the pleased flush that reddened Jaskier’s cheeks at what he was sure was now his favorite term of endearment. 

Geralt turned back, two vials in hand; one the tantalizing promise of having Geralt _in him already_ , the other a sickly green color, obviously medicinal. Geralt set aside the one Jaskier had really wanted. 

“Turn around,” he grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes but complied, knowing he’d have to allow Geralt to patch him up before he’d have any chance at being fucked senseless. 

“While I appreciate the sentiment you may as well wait until _after_ we’re done, considering your proclivity toward biting,” the touch of rough fabric against the scrape was unpleasant, but not unbearable. Cool salve followed shortly after and Jaskier let himself appreciate the gentle probing of Geralt’s fingers. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” he murmured against the shell of Jaskier’s ear, in a tone saying that he knew _precisely_ how much he liked it, thankyouverymuch.

“Mmm,” he leaned back into Geralt’s chest with no heed for the minty balm that was probably all over the Witcher’s shirt by now. Strong arms wrapped around Jaskier’s bare waist, ghosting over his ribs with the tips of his fingers as if counting each one. 

“It hardly feels fair, you know,” Jaskier let his head fall back against a disappointingly clothed shoulder, “you’ve got all this experience playing me like a lute and I hardly know where to start with you.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Geralt reassured him, turning the bard to straddle him, “you _always_ do.” 

And oh if _that’s_ not intimidating at all. Jaskier has had plenty of lovers, sure, he knew his way around the bedroom better than most, but this was _Geralt_ for fucks sake. And if the remarkably large hardness pressed between the two of them was anything to go by it was going to be a _lot_ to handle. Jaskier bit his lip, trying in vain to keep the trepidation from his features. It was difficult to push away the nervousness, the feeling that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance that he _could not_ fuck up. Geralt grasped Jaskier’s chin, pulling his gaze up to meet his own. 

“What’s wrong?” A hysterical laugh caught in the back of Jaskier’s throat, coming out as an awkward cough. That was a _loaded_ question. 

“How many times have I told you I loved you?” Whatever Geralt was expecting, it was clear this question was not it.

“Eight hundred sixty-three times,” his response came quickly and with a surety that disarmed Jaskier. He didn’t know how he felt about Geralt keeping a running tally of that.

“...have you ever said it back?” 

Jaskier regretted the question immediately. 

“Every time.” 

_Oh_.

Tears sprung to his eyes.

“I don’t want to forget this Geralt. This is all I’ve ever wanted and I won’t even know when it’s being torn away—” he could feel the panic cracking his voice and he hated himself for it. His chest felt tight and the inexorable weight of dread settled in his stomach. He let himself be pulled closer, and tried to match his breathing to Geralt’s. He buried his face in the crook of his neck and let the smell of cedar and leather wash over him. Traitorous tears rolled down his cheeks, in the kind of silent weeping that happens when you struggle to hold on to your composure. 

“I love you Jaskier,” the whisper came out stilted. “I love you and I _couldn’t_ tell you, couldn’t watch this happen every day. At least how it was _I_ was the only one that knew to hurt,” and then Jaskier’s composure _did_ snap, his sobs muffled in Geralt’s shoulder, he clung to him like driftwood in a raging storm. 

“You stupid, selfless, _asshole_ ,” the bard choked out, punctuating himself with a weak slap to Geralt’s chest. “I can’t _believe_ you,” but he could, because that’s precisely the kind of thing his Witcher would do. 

“I… I’m sorry Jaskier,” though it was evident he wasn’t sure _why_ he was apologising. Jaskier pulled back a scant few inches, just far enough to meet his lover’s eyes. 

“Just shut up, darling. Shut up and hold me,” and Geralt complied. 

Jaskier was sorry to see the opportunity to fuck slip out of his fingers, but if he was being honest with himself he preferred this. Curled up against his Witcher in the dying light of a cursed day, tears on his cheeks and heart heavy but still, somehow, a small bright flame of hope was still burning somewhere in him. 

The sun sank below the horizon and the night chill began to creep up.

“Have I ever lived through a day?” Geralt shook his head silently, the motion only perceptible in the dark due to their proximity. “That’s a shame,” Jaskier mumbled, his eyes were heavy. He felt Geralt lay them down, and found himself very thankful for the blanket he’d pulled over them. The night was cool, but Jaskier was pleasantly warm, enveloped in the embrace of his white wolf. 

* * *

Jaskier stirred awake, the slight chill of the dewy morning seemed to be miles away. He huffed a little, savoring the warmth of his bedroll, not exactly keen to leave it. But, leave one _must_ , there’s monsters to slay, ballads to write, etcetera, etcetera.

The bard tried to sit up, but a heavy weight across his waist jerked him back down. His eyes shot open, only to be met with a very warm, very comfortable looking Witcher in his bedroll. 

It _wasn’t_ a dream.

Geralt stirred, his eyes blinked open and he startled at their closeness. He said nothing.

Jaskier gaped for a moment before reaching out; he clung to his Witcher, clung so hard and so long his entire body shook. “I love you,” he whispered finally. Geralt pushed him back, the widest smile he’d ever seen gracing that serious, solemn face of his. 

“You _remember_.”

Their kiss was a desperate clash of teeth and tongues. There was a reverence there, touches frantic with want but softened by adoration, by the unexpected relief that this was _real_ and it was _theirs_. 

Preoccupied with that relief, the lovers took no notice of the soft breeze in the clearing, nor of the watchful, unseen eyes high up in the tree. The air smelled of sweat and magic, of love and a broken spell. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Invictus, by William Earnest Henley. 
> 
> Concept derived from a tumbr shitpost by @shorthalt. 
> 
> It's my first dive into writing for this fandom and my first real foray into smut (tame though it may be).
> 
> ~~I MAY continue this with a look at Geralt's side of things, but that kind of depends on level of interest, so if that's something you'd like to see please drop a line in the comments!~~
> 
> Inspiration has struck me and if anyone wants to beta Geralt's instalment drop me a line. I just finished writing their argument on the first day and y'all. The _feels_. My poor boys.


End file.
